Soul of a Samurai
by KazeYasumi
Summary: A conversation that may have influenced the adoption of Eiji. Because as we all know, Saitou is not nearly as hard-hearted as he would like us to believe...


So hello all you out there! This is an idea that's been jumping around in my head for a while… I came up with it as a possible additional reason for why Saitou would have adopted Eiji, aside from the fact that he is WAY more softhearted than he would like ANY of us to believe… My drabbles live quite happily in the world of the live-action film, and I like to think that the recruit that Eijiro is talking to is the officer that the white haired Juppongatana member kills on the beach in "The Legend Ends". Any and all errors are mine, by the way! :D If you notice anything glaring, please let me know, but I'm not super concerned about timeing and whatever. As long as it happens quite a while before Eijiro dies, I'm happy….. :D This is my first fanfic ever, so please be nice!

Hope you enjoy,

Keio

* * *

"I don't understand Lieutenant Fujita. It's only a little sword – not even really a _katana…"_

Marishima Eijiro sighed a little and put down his pen. He knew by the near whine that he wasn't going to be able to ignore this conversation. The sooner addressed, the sooner he could get back to this report.

"I didn't understand him either," he admitted. "I don't think I ever will, completely. But I understand him enough to know that any sword – even these flimsy department issue ones – is worthy of his respect simply because it is a sword and he is a samurai."

"He's not a samurai – they were abolished six years ago –"

Eijiro glared and the recruit's mouth snapped shut. "If you would like to try looking someone like Lieutenant Fujita in the eye and telling them they're not a samurai, be my guest. See if you live a whole minute past that ridiculous statement. There's more to a true samurai than just birthright. A true samurai will live and die holding fast to his honor, whether he is the Tokugawa Shogun or the lowliest retainer of the most inconsequential han. You could even take his sword and he would still be a samurai…but only such an empty shell, then…"

"I still don't understand," the recruit said, humbled, after a moment of silence. "I just want to succeed here, to help people, but if I can't understand my commander enough to respect him for more than just that he _is_ my commander, how can I truly follow him? He is very skilled, but…he's…daunting."

"Have you ever heard what they say, that a samurai's sword is his soul?" Mishima asked, his eyes taking on a far away look. When his companion nodded, he swallowed, desperately hoping that Lieutenant Fujita was nowhere close by. "I really don't know much about him, but I always wondered why he was so different from the other officers. How he gained the skills to find information the way he does. How he learned all those things that make him the officer that he is. I guessed he must have been a soldier – before – during the wars – but I'd never seen him fight; just heard rumors, never seen him actually even draw the katana he carried around everywhere. I followed him then, for what I _had_ seen. I gave him my respect, my loyalty, but I didn't even guess – not until that night…

* * *

The night was like any other in early spring; a fine misting rain fell soundlessly through the still-bare trees, deceptive in its intensity, shrouding the world in a surreal blue-grey blanket.

Mishima hunched further inside his coat, grateful for the cap that kept the rain out of his eyes, vision focused on the warm yellow beacon of the mess hall windows. It was late. Very late, but there would still be some food there – just as there was always hot water in the baths. Headquarters never slept. Activity lessened and noise was dampened, but there were always people doing something. And if command was considerate enough to provide food at all hours, he was going to accept it before heading to collapse on his bunk in the barracks. His breath fogged out into the rainy haze. It had been a very long day.

Dancing light and shadow to his right caught his attention, and he looked, disinterestedly noting the source: the dojo. He couldn't see the occupants, but sword play was too complex for this time of night. He had lost interest and was turning back towards his goal when the light danced again and this time he saw the cause for just long enough to recognize his commander – naked blade in hand – throwing himself into battle against an opponent that , evidently, didn't exist in the flesh and blood of the world.

Exhaustion and hunger were forgotten – supplanted by the burning desire, fueled by months of wondering, to _see,_ while unseen, the beauty denied him as a farmer's son – to discover for himself if a samurai's sword truly was his soul.

He crept forward, headless now of the rain, changing his path so he could see the majority of the dojo interior – barely lit as it was by two small andons. He shivered to think of what might descend on him if he was discovered, but, the door _was_ open, for anyone to look – his eyes found the swordsman again, and he forgot all else.

This, _this,_ was no ordinary kata or drill like the corps practiced daily. This was not even kata at all. This was true kenjutsu – the unique combination of more than four styles that was this man's _alone_ \- perfected and wielded with a power and unleashed ferocity that belied the solitude – responding to the opponents seen only in the wielder's mind as he battled his ghosts. Perhaps it was the smiling face of Okita Souji that faced him. Perhaps the hard stare and Hiten Mitsurugi of the Battousai. Perhaps simply the thrill of facing an enemy in battle. Perhaps it was merely his own personal frustrations and doubts and unacknowledged fruitless hopes that had morphed into a form he could battle, if never defeat.

Mishima would never know. All he could do was stare, until finally, the wet soaking uncomfortably through his coat brought his mind back to some semblance of coherent thought, enough to realize that, open door or not, commanding officer or not, he had no right to see this; this private, intrinsic part of the man he understood so inadequately that he had not even thought to look for it.

Suddenly embarrassed, like one caught reading another's thoughts in a secret journal, he forced himself to turn and walk away. There was some truth in the old lore then, after all. But he couldn't help but think that if a samurai's sword was his soul, then to see the true from of his kata when he believed himself alone was to look into his unguarded soul.

* * *

There was silence for a long time when Mishima finished speaking. He was still lost in his memory, his listener watching him with new respect and a slightly awed envy.

I think I understand now," he said finally.

Mishima tried a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry I can't explain it better than that. I can't say I understand him – not even close – but I think I understand even just a small part of him, and even that is enough."

"It does make one wonder – what he was before – well – before _now_ –"

"He never talks about it, other than I once heard him say he was a kenjutsu instructor for much of his life."

I'm sure he was more than that. I wish I knew."

This time Mishima's smile was truly sad. "I doubt that any of us will ever know."

* * *

The man known as Fujita Goro pushed himself away from the wall and padded silently away. He would never admit that Mishima's conclusion was entirely true, he only scowled and told himself that he'd been momentarily caught unawares by the boy's insight. Nothing more.

* * *

Done!


End file.
